


Still Waters

by foxinsocksinabox



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Romance, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxinsocksinabox/pseuds/foxinsocksinabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell of stale cigarette smoke is at once suffocating and immediately nostalgic; Imayoshi has to pause just inside the door to catch his breath so that he doesn’t wheeze too obviously where he can be seen. It’s almost pitch black for a moment as his eyes adjust from the glare of the streetlamp right over the door, and then the inside of the pool hall swims slowly into view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Waters

**Author's Note:**

> for clearlykero's request, which was initially Imakasa and morphed into Imasusa, yus.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke is at once suffocating and immediately nostalgic; Imayoshi has to pause just inside the door to catch his breath so that he doesn’t wheeze too obviously where he can be seen. It’s almost pitch black for a moment as his eyes adjust from the glare of the streetlamp right over the door, and then the inside of the pool hall swims slowly into view.

As a first year at Keidai, Imayoshi is right at the bottom of a very ruthless and highly competitive food chain. This isn’t really his usual scene, but he’s come to the conclusion that if the seniors from 3 o’clock Political Theory see fit to invite him to seedy pool halls after class, then he really has nothing to lose by going.

It helps that three of them are members of the Basketball club. Imayoshi may be new, but he’s not stupid— and he’s definitely not averse to a little networking here and there.

“Imayoshi-kun!” Okamoto, third year Political Science, calls his name lazily from the bar, waving at him with the hand that isn’t holding a cigarette. Smoke curls upwards to disperse against the clouded ceiling, and Imayoshi has to squash the part of him that suddenly craves the slow drag of a cigarette.

His smile widens instead, and he goes over to where some of the mixed group of second- and third-years are sitting. “Okamoto-senpai, Fukuyama-senpai, good evening.”

Okamoto grins at him, lounging against second year Fukuyama’s stiff side. “We thought you might not make it. Sit! Get something to drink, Kou-kun’s paying.”

“I am not,” Fukuyama growls, rolling his shoulders to try (and fail) to dislodge the octopus grip Okamoto has on them. Imayoshi tries not to look too amused at his expense.

He slides onto the stool beside them and shrugs, nonchalant. “A beer, please,” he says, when the bartender comes over.

Beyond them, Fuji is lining up a shot at a nearby table, and Nakagawa raises his glass in greeting. Takeda is too busy flirting with a waitress to notice Imayoshi’s arrival.

He waves to answer Nakagawa, and afterwards turns to meet Fukuyama’s measuring look with his best attempt at polite innocence. It’s a very good one, he thinks, except that Fukuyama snorts and raises his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed.

Well. Imayoshi raises one of his own in return, only listening with half an ear as Okamoto complains loudly about the presentation he has to give tomorrow, (why then, Imayoshi wonders wryly, is he out on the town at all?). Fukuyama is clearly taking his measure, and Imayoshi isn’t about to object when he’s done the very same thing countless times to others. He just smiles, toasts Fukuyama with his beer, and focuses a larger portion of his attention onto Okamoto.

Smile and nod in the right places and people actually think you’re paying attention.

Imayoshi honestly doesn’t notice that Susa’s arrived until he brushes fingers along the back of Imayoshi’s jacket, startling him.

He turns around a little sharply, but Susa’s strong profile is instantly recognisable and Imayoshi relaxes, grinning. “Susa! I thought you wanted to finish your essay for next week, are you done already?”

Behind him, Okamoto splutters. “Next _week_? Are you- you still have a _week_ , that’s so much time!”

“Not everyone’s _you_ , Okamoto, don’t be a bad influence on our juniors.”

“I’m not! Kou-kun, he’s going to miss out on _student life_ , I can’t just stand by and watch that happen! It’s my responsibility as his senior! Yours too.”

Fukuyama rolls his eyes so hard Imayoshi thinks it must hurt, and then he and Okamoto are at it again; bickering like the old married couple Imayoshi has already likened them to in his mind. Susa looks amused since he still hasn’t managed to greet anyone yet, but he’s glad enough to turn his attention onto Imayoshi when he leans back to speak. Susa’s eyebrows climb in question, and Imayoshi murmurs, “Glad you could make it. Staying for long?”

“Yes. I have time.” Susa takes the seat on Imayoshi’s other side, so Imayoshi swivels around to see him better. Looking at Susa also serves the purpose of taking Okamoto out of his line of sight, which is a plus.

Susa glances over Imayoshi, then frowns. “Does that bother you?” he asks, and despite just thinking about it Imayoshi doesn’t remember at first that he’d mentioned his previous smoking habit to Susa. It’s a little surprising that he remembers when even Imayoshi doesn’t.

“No,” he says automatically, shaking his head. Then he reconsiders at the dubious look on Susa’s face. “Well. Not really. It does make me wanna light one up, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Susa’s frown doesn’t go away, and Imayoshi inexplicably dislikes the idea of Susa’s unhappiness. He has time to open his mouth, about to change the subject to something pointedly _not_ to do with smoking, but Susa stands before he can even begin.

“Excuse us, senpai, we’re going to start a round. Would you like to play doubles?” Okamoto and Fukuyama glance up, then Okamoto shrugs.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“No, thanks.”

Okamoto grins, offers them a thumbs up and says, “We’re alright. You kids have fun!”

Imayoshi just has time to take another gulp of his beer before Susa reappears at his elbow with a pair of cues. Then they’re moving away from the cigarette haze into marginally cleaner air, and Imayoshi feels something loosen in his chest. He hadn’t even been aware he was tense.

He doesn’t quite sigh, but he does draw in and expel a carefully measured breath. Across the empty pool table, Susa pauses in setting out the triangle to tilt his head, and Imayoshi offers him a small, wry smile. Immediately, it’s like something unwinds in Susa as well, and Imayoshi is a little blindsided by the warmth that comes with the answering grin.

_Ah._ They’ve always been good at communicating without words, but Imayoshi can’t quite be sure that he’s reading all the layers of that smile correctly.

“You know,” he says instead, “I’m pretty good at pool. Whaddaya say to a little wager?”

To his credit (or perhaps it just means he’s been hanging around Imayoshi for too long), Susa’s smile turns into a very appropriate look of suspicion. He asks, “What kind of a wager?”

Imayoshi grins.

*

Twenty minutes later, Imayoshi watches in blank disbelief as Susa calmly leapfrogs the red 3-ball over his blockade, the ball continuing to roll until it drops into the corner pocket with a distinct air of finality.

His game’s done. Susa only has the 8 to go and there are still four of Imayoshi’s stripes left on the table. After the first five minutes, Imayoshi had cottoned on to the fact that he may be good, but Susa is _better_ , despite how he’d griped and grumbled about the wager. He’s so good, in fact, that despite his impending loss, Imayoshi can feel his lips stretch into a delighted grin.

He hadn’t thought Susa had it in him to be so _devious_.

“8-ball, center pocket.”

Imayoshi tuts. “No ambition, Susa. Why not make it this one instead?” He taps the corner nearest to him and deliberately doesn’t snicker when Susa fixes him with an exasperated look.

Still, he nods, says, “8-ball, corner pocket,” then Susa props a hip against the green felt of the table and _stretches,_ sprawled almost all the way across the table—

Imayoshi’s smile disappears faster than you can say _hello lickable_.

There’s a _thunk_ of the 8-ball dropping out of sight and the game is over, the audience Imayoshi hadn’t really noticed up until now hooting and congratulating Susa on his win. Imayoshi himself barely has the presence of mind to ensure that his smile doesn’t look too much like a grimace, but he dredges up a wry look and a tossed salute for Susa when he furrows his brow, questioning.

He should really know by now that Susa has more going on beneath the surface than he lets on. Still waters run deep, and all that.

“Weren’t expecting that, were you?” Imayoshi blinks. He turns to see that Fukuyama has come to stand next to him, arms crossed over his chest and a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. In response to his raised eyebrow, Fukuyama snorts, then says. “It’s written all over your face. For once. Even if he’s your friend, you don’t like losing.”

Imayoshi shrugs. Instead of answering, (Fukuyama’s only half right seeing as Imayoshi really _doesn’t_ like losing, but then again it’s _Susa_ and there are suddenly quite a few other things on Imayoshi’s mind tonight) he asks, “May I?”

Fukuyama passes him the packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and Imayoshi’s hands fall back into the practiced ritual even as his eyes are drawn inevitably back to Susa. He inhales, holds the breath for a long moment, then sighs it out in a stream of smoke.

Without even really noticing, he’d shut his eyes to savour the familiar nicotine rush. When he opens them again, though, Imayoshi’s fingers pause in the middle of lifting the cigarette back to his mouth, because Susa’s frowning at him from across the pool table where he is most definitely _not_ paying attention to whatever it is Fuji is gushing about.

Well. Imayoshi tells himself that it’s ridiculous to feel guilty.

A flicker of movement signals Fukuyama stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. He blows out a huff of breath but pockets the rest of the pack, seemingly intent on stopping for the night. As he turns to leave, he hesitates.

Reluctant curiousity is evident in Fukuyama’s voice when he asks, “What was it you wagered earlier?”

What indeed. Imayoshi smirks, watches as Susa bows away from offers of a drink in order to make his way over, then says in a deliberately perky voice, “Oh, nothing much. Just a little favour!”

Maybe Fukuyama cottons on to the fact that he’s being deliberately evasive, but Imayoshi honestly finds he _does not care_. Susa settles into the space beside him that Fukuyama vacated, pressed close from hip to shoulder, and calmly collects the pool cue Imayoshi’s been swinging recklessly from side to side. Their fingers brush briefly, then Susa places the cues on the table behind them.

He doesn’t look at Imayoshi when he speaks, instead tilting his head upwards to regard a particularly large curl of grey smoke. “That favour. Is it the kind I think it is?”

There’s a hint of hesitance hidden somewhere in there, which Imayoshi thinks is just _adorable_. He leans a little more heavily against Susa’s side, and lays a tentative hand over Susa’s with a crooked smile and a hum.

“I dunno. Could be.”

Susa turns his hand over to lace his fingers with Imayoshi’s, holding on tight.

His voice is wry. “Maybe later, then. When you won’t taste like ash.”

Imayoshi laughs and takes a last deep drag of the cigarette. Then he reaches across Susa to stub it out, even if a small part of him mourns the fact that there’s still a fair bit left before the filter. His smile is back in place and wider than ever as he fixes Susa with a mildly (only _very_ mildly) predatory look.

“I’ll hold you to that.”


End file.
